Saint Nick and the Fir Tree
a short story of the day after Christmas
by Nancy Adams
Copyright 2011 by Nancy Adams
Published by Green Fern Press at Smashwords
All rights reserved
Cover art and design by Carrie Spencer
To the memory of my mother,
who loved Santa Claus, and loved a good story
The fir tree had grown a punk haircut, as it did every summer. Sometimes Aunt Nancy wished the tree would act its age; trimming it could be quite a chore.
Once Aunt Nancy had finished, she stepped around the tree, examining its shape. Instead of a nice, smooth cone, the middle had become rather bulgy.
“How fat you've grown!” she exclaimed. “What have you been up to?”
The fir tree giggled.
The fir tree was really a yew, but it liked to think of itself as a fir tree. Yews mean sadness, death, and funeral wreaths; fir trees mean Christmas. No contest.
It preened itself, and said to Aunt Nancy, “You really want to know? It's a long story.”
It was the day after Christmas, and old Saint Nick was taking his annual vacation. His first stop was our little town, Greenwood. Why do you look surprised? Greenwood is a good place to be. Saint Nick told me he wanted a change of scene—no snow. What with global warming, it's getting easier for him to find vacation spots. He used to have to go clear down to Georgia or Texas before he could find a nice warm spot this time of year.
Anyway, when Saint Nick arrived in Greenwood, I was the first tree he saw.
“What a jolly little Christmas tree you are!” he said. “I've got a little present for you.” He heaved a big backpack off his shoulders and dug around inside, then pulled out a flask of golden liquid. “Genuine Ent draft. Been stashed away for a special occasion. The real stuff, all the way from Oxford. John and I go back a long ways, rest his soul.”
I can't tell you how flattered I was. I mean, a compliment and a present from the Saint himself!
“Let us go together, you and I.” The Saint held out his hand.
“But I'm a tree,” I said, thinking maybe he'd started his celebrations a little too early.
But Saint Nick just winked and walked away.
“Wait!” How I wished I could follow him! And then I found myself out of the ground. Hey! What was going on? I hadn't even had a drop of the Ent draft, and already things were getting strange. I stared down in horror at my naked roots, feeling queasy. I've never been so scared in my life—plus it was positively indecent.
“Saint Nick!” I croaked.
He must have heard the fear in my voice, because he turned around. “Oh yes, should have thought of that,” he mumbled, and winked again.
My roots relaxed as I wiggled them in good solid earth once more—but not the earth I was used to. High-quality organic compost and peat—yum! What a nice present—my second present!
“Well come on, then!” Saint Nick said.
“Huh?”
He nodded impatiently, pointing at my roots with his beard.
“Thank you,” I said fervently, “what wonderful soil! Maybe you could drop a hint or two with Aunt Nancy? I know she means well, but ...”
“Look down at your roots!” the Saint bellowed.
If I had a mouth, it would have hung open; my roots were enclosed in a classy-looking stone pot.
“Well come on, then!” he repeated.
Stone is a very heavy substance. You'd think the Saint would know that.
“It's plastic,” he said as if reading my thoughts. “Lightweight, and yes, you can keep the dirt when this is all over.”
There was nothing more to say.
Getting through the picket fence could have been tricky, but the Saint just winked and I sailed right over.
The squirrels in the tall maple next to Aunt Nancy's house chittered in amazement. I gaped back at them, staring all around. The world beyond the picket fence stretched in every direction, full of things I'd never seen.
“Come on!” Saint Nick held out his hand.
“Uh, won't Aunt Nancy notice I'm gone?”
“She won't notice a thing. Now come, Tree! I'd like to get started on my holiday.”